


Undisclosed

by mistyzeo



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Accidental Relationship, Dom/sub, Domestic, M/M, Resolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-14
Updated: 2011-05-14
Packaged: 2017-10-20 13:08:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/213092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistyzeo/pseuds/mistyzeo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has some strange ideas about the nature of their relationship. Particularly, that John is his sub. But he neglected to inform John about this. Also featuring case!fic of the stolen-directly-from-canon variety, and some snark.</p><p>D/s themes, lack of negotiation, Sherlock being an arse, no actual sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Undisclosed

The arrival on the scene was like any other: Sherlock sweeping out of the cab in his coat, tall and formidable and impossibly elegant, and then John after him, not as tall, not as formidable, and not half as elegant. He was left to pay, of course, and Sherlock was halfway down the block by the time he'd put his wallet away and stepped onto the footpath. When he caught up, Sherlock's head was bent over his mobile, typing away without watching where he was walking. Without a single misstep, of course.

'Send that for me,' Sherlock said, handing the phone over. John took it, glanced at the message, and stared at Sherlock in indignation.

'You can't be bothered to press "send" on a text, now?'

'There's Lestrade,' Sherlock said, decidedly ignoring him.

'Arse,' John said, sending the text and putting the phone away in his pocket. He jammed his hands in after and quickened his pace again, to come up alongside Sherlock as he stopped just shy of the police line that crossed the doorway.

'Permission to enter?' Sherlock said loudly into the open door, feigning boredom. John could see him looking over the scene already, taking in data and making observations.

'Yes, yes,' Lestrade said impatiently from the fireplace, waving them in. 'Good morning, John.'

'Morning,' John said, smiling as he ducked under the tape after Sherlock.

'What are we looking at?' Sherlock asked, already peering over Lestrade's shoulder at the cloth that covered the body.

'Murdered by burglars, the wife says,' Lestrade said, crossing his arms. 'She's in the other room; you can speak to her in a moment.'

Sherlock inclined his head, and looked pointedly at the body. John fished his notebook from the same pocket where Sherlock's phone now rested, and clicked his pen into action.

'Apparently she comes down every night to check the doors and windows are locked.'

'The windows?' John asked, despite himself. Sherlock arched an eyebrow, but said nothing.

'That's what she said,' Lestrade said. 'Came down last night to find three men in her living room, two young and one elderly. She said they surprised her, and she cried out, so one of the younger ones hit her and knocked her out.'

Sherlock nodded, lips pursed. He'd stepped away from Lestrade by now and was pacing around the body, picking up its hands to look at its fingernails, checking the inside of the lapels of the jacket.

'She came 'round and her husband— this poor bastard right here— came into the room, apparently drawn by her shout. She was tied to the chair, and he had a walking stick in his hand.'

'And the burglars beat him to death with the poker,' Sherlock finished, rising to his feet. 'Lestrade, I admit I am at a bit of a loss.'

Lestrade did a visible double-take, and John raised his eyes from the notebook. Sherlock had his hands behind his back, making him appear rather more aloof than was entirely necessary, and he was glaring fiercely. John squashed down the little voice in his head that murmured its appreciation, its witless lust for that penetrating attention. He hated that voice; it made everything confusing.

'I am not certain as to why you've called us down here,' Sherlock said. 'I have other cases, at the moment, and seeing as you've already got an explanation for the death, it is unclear to me what services you require at this moment.'

John hid a smile against the edge of his notebook, and Lestrade sputtered. 'The burglars got away with a drawer full of silver, and they match the description of a gang that was suspected of robbing a string of houses half a mile from here! Don't you want to catch them?'

'Undoubtedly,' Sherlock sighed. 'Come, John; we'll go talk to the wife.'

She was seated in the kitchen, with an ice pack over her eye and her sister at her side. Her name was Mary Brackenstall, she said, sniffling delicately and shaking their hands. She allowed John to examine her gently while she told them in a strong Perth accent the same story Lestrade had told. She added that after her husband had been struck she had lost consciousness again. When she awoke for the second time, the three men were drinking her wine and laughing. When they saw she had regained her senses, they quickly gathered up their things, a bag full of her grandmother's silver, and left through the window they'd come in.

'Your husband,' Sherlock said, 'wasn't a particularly nice man.'

Mrs. Brackenstall tugged the sleeves of her cardigan down to cover dark marks on her arm— a set of bruises that looked to John rather like finger marks. 'He— wasn't always nice, no.'

'He was a right bastard,' Mrs. Brackenstall's sister said. 'Sorry, Mary, but we never liked him.'

Mary gave her a wan smile. 'He had his moments,' she said.

'But he drank,' Sherlock interrupted. 'Isn't that right? He'd get rough when he drank?'

'Yes,' Mary said carefully. 'Sometimes. Not too often— and he apologised in the morning. He always felt so guilty afterwards. I tried to get him to go to a support group, but.' She shook her head. 'He didn't think it was a problem.'

'Had he been drinking that night?'

'I imagine so,' Mary said. 'He had some wine at dinner.'

'The same wine your intruders drank?'

Mary looked flustered, shaking her head, and then she nodded. 'Yes, the same bottle. We didn't finish it, and neither did they.' She laughed, weakly, and dropped her eyes to the floor.

'John,' Sherlock said, 'Call us a cab, will you? I think we're done here.'

John left the house to make the call, and used Sherlock's phone just to use up the minutes. When he'd confirmed the address and been promised a pick-up, Sherlock came out, looking irritated.

'Not worth anything, then?' John asked, looking up at him.

Sherlock shrugged one shoulder noncommittally. 'They're all lying,' he said, 'but I doubt there's anything to be done.'

John turned at the sound of footsteps and found Anderson in the doorway, sneering.

'Holmes thinks this is a waste of time, does he?' Anderson said, stripping off his gloves. 'I guess he's not much good when there's nothing freakish about a case.'

'Lestrade seemed to think he'd be useful,' John said, trying very hard not to appear irritated. Rising to Anderson's bait was the last thing Sherlock would want him to do, and the last thing that would be helpful. 'But I suppose it's all very obvious and you can handle it without any help.'

Anderson's sneer grew nastier and he squinted at John from behind his safety glasses. 'We never need the help,' he said, 'and we certainly don't need the sidekick tagging along either, muddling up the scene.'

John took a deep breath. He wasn't used to putting up this kind of verbal abuse— in the army he wouldn't have to, and he could send a man like Anderson away with a strong reprimand. Now, as a civilian, all he had to protect him and Sherlock was his dignity.

'Not that it was too much trouble,' Anderson went on, and John could feel Sherlock fairly vibrating with rage at his side. 'You were a bit caught up being his bitch to get in the way.'

That was the last straw. John turned and opened his mouth, but Sherlock was whirling around and stalking back to the doorway, so fast that Anderson didn't have a second to get away. Sherlock seized him by the open collar of his shirt and yanked him in close.

'You,' he hissed, 'get off with another officer while your wife's on business trips making more money than you, and yet you have the audacity to make a judgement like that about us. The relationship between a dominant and his submissive is very delicate and very deep, not that you'd particularly understand. I'll thank you not to speak to him like that ever— in fact, never speak to John again, and you might get to keep your larynx.'

John's mouth was still open, he knew that, but he couldn't seem to muster the coordination to close it. A dominant and his submissive? Is that what Anderson thought was going on here? Is that what _Sherlock_ thought? He'd never seen himself as a submissive sort of fellow, but then he followed Sherlock's every directive without question. Bitching, yes, but not serious question. He'd taken orders in the army, but— well that was what you did, in the army. As for the other implications— it made John’s head spin.

The cab pulled up, and Sherlock gave Anderson a good hard shove, sending him sprawling backwards into the foyer of the house. Then he turned on his heel and stalked back to John, put a hand on his elbow, and bent to open the door for him.

'Get in,' he said, and John did.

Once they were on their way, John turned to look at him. He was glaring out the window, his hands clenched into fists on his knees, and his chest was rising and falling rapidly as he breathed hard through the anger clear on his face.

'What was that?' John asked carefully.

'The absolute arse,' Sherlock muttered. 'To talk about you that way. He nearly got caught this morning, that's what it was— he was taking it out on you.'

'Ah,' John said, 'what you said back there.'

'What?'

'About—' John chewed his lower lip until Sherlock turned to look at him, obviously irritated by the delay. 'About us. About a— a dominant. And his submissive.'

'It's nothing to be ashamed of,' Sherlock said tersely, and made a visible effort to relax his hands. 'It's a matter of trust. You trust me, don't you?'

John snorted, and reached out to grip Sherlock's knee briefly. 'Sure, I trust you.'

'You'd say if you didn't,' Sherlock pressed, and now his eyes were fixed on John's, his gaze boring into him. 'Wouldn't you?'

'I think I do,' John said, giving him a little pat and returning his hands to himself, 'if I have a particular issue with something you're up to.'

'Good,' Sherlock said, and blew out a breath. 'I'd hate to think—'

'Wait,' John said quickly, stealing a glance at the taxi driver in the rearview mirror. 'Let's just. Wait.'

'Fine,' Sherlock said. His attention turned back to the city zooming past out the window, and John folded his hands in his lap and looked down at them. They told him very little.

+++

When they'd reached Baker Street, Sherlock appeared to have calmed down, but he still leapt out of the cab and waited with John's door open until John had paid the driver and ignored his little smirk. He put a hand on John's shoulder as they crossed the pavement to the door, and John resisted the urge to shake him off. He was feeling strange now about the whole thing, having gotten over the shock, and Sherlock's continued ignorance to the very large problem this presented was irritating.

Once in the flat John threw his coat on the chair, turned around, and said, 'I'm not your sub.'

'Sorry?' Sherlock said, taking off his scarf and raising his eyebrows impossibly high.

'I don't know if you're trying to be funny,' John said, crossing his arms, 'and I'm glad you had the last word over Anderson, fine, but I want it to be very clear that I'm not your sub.'

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, as if he wasn't quite sure what John was going on about. 'Whose are you, then?'

'I'm not—' John sputtered, 'I'm not anybody's sub, Sherlock. I'm not— I don't do that.'

'Don't you, though?' Sherlock asked. He shrugged off his coat and hung it up. 'You do whatever I tell you; I don't even have to ask anymore. You get pleasure from it, too. You enjoy doing things for me. I thought that was a given.'

John scowled. His face felt hot with embarrassment, and his stomach felt like it had dropped into his shoes. 'There's a little more to a dominant/submissive relationship than that,' he said. He'd been on the internet: a brief and entirely accidental foray into bondage pornography was inevitable. Wasn't it?

'What, sex?' Sherlock said, turning to face John and putting his hands on his hips. His shirt shifted across his shoulders, lines pulling taut, and John silently cursed him for looking impeccable even as they stood in the sitting room talking loudly about their non-existent sexual encounters. He was flustered and blushing and feeling rather twitchy, and Sherlock just stood there, unflappable. 'Is that your objection, that we're not having sex?'

'No,' John snarled, although it had some bearing on the situation, 'that is not my objection. My objection is to being named as your submissive without a formal conversation on the subject, in which I would clearly outline to you that I am not, as a rule, interested in that sort of relationship.'

'And I would explain to you that you are, as a rule, involved in one anyway.'

'I might've noticed before now!'

'Because we're not having sex? John, a relationship does not need to be _built_ on _sex._ You're being incredibly dense.'

'You're being mental,' John said, because it sounded like the best retort and he couldn't think of another damn thing to say. His hands were trembling.

'John,' Sherlock said carefully. At least he realised he was treading on thin ice just now. 'Sit down.' Perhaps not.

'I will not be ordered around like your slave—' John started.

'Please,' Sherlock said, and John stuck out a finger and pointed it at him.

'I'm not fucking sitting down, and if you think I'm going to do anything else you say you've got another thing coming.'

'John, really,' Sherlock said with a sigh. He was starting to sound irritated as well, like John just didn't _get it_ , and it made John feel sick to his stomach. 'Please calm down. Denial isn't a useful tactic.'

'Fuck off,' John said.

'You're the one who wanted to have this conversation.'

'Well I bloody don't anymore,' John said, and promptly left the room. His bedroom door slammed childishly and satisfyingly behind him, and from below he could hear Sherlock begin to pace back and forth across the sitting room. _Fine,_ he thought. _Let him pace. Controlling git._

He spent an hour alone, determinedly not sulking, looking up all the recent news articles on the gang that had been accused of burglaries in the neighbourhood near the Brackenstalls' home, and was now facing a murder charge. The articles described three men, one older and the others younger, who had been seen repeatedly but not described in much detail. The burglaries had occurred over a series of weeks beginning about two months before and ceasing after five separate incidents, excepting the attack last night.

John saved them all into a folder and was halfway down the stairs with his laptop before he remembered he was angry with Sherlock, but he couldn't just stop on the stairs and go back up again— that would mean defeat. He squared his shoulders and finished the descent, and caught Sherlock at the tail end of springing from the sofa and hurrying to the fireplace.

John glared at him, trying to make a point, and held out the laptop. 'Here's your suspects,' he said, 'just like Mrs. Brackenstall described them.'

Sherlock gave him a tiny smile, obviously aiming for placating, and took the laptop into his hands carefully. He glanced over the articles and his smile grew, turning predatory. 'Exactly as she described them,' he said. 'Isn't that odd.'

'Is it?' John asked.

'Very odd,' Sherlock said. 'There were things about that room that didn’t sit well with me. We have to go back.'

John wanted very much to say, _You’re going back, you mean,_ and _I’m furious with you, remember?_ but he’d lost interest in being angry, and wanted to know what Sherlock had seen that had gotten him so perturbed. 'Fine,' he said, 'but you’re calling the damn cab this time.'

+++

By the time they’d reached the Brackenstall house again, having left it only two hours earlier, Sherlock had been on his phone no less than four times. First, he called Lestrade and told him something was wrong and they were on their way back. Then he called him back immediately after to tell him they wouldn’t come at all if Anderson was still there, and he ought to have heard the things he’d said to John. Incredibly unprofessional. It made John’s face heat again at the thought, the idea Sherlock had planted in his brain now, damn him. His _sub_ , Jesus Christ. Sherlock had moved on after that to phoning Mycroft and asking about Mary Brackenstall and airplanes, and then he’d called a take out place and ordered supper for two for six hours in the future. John wasn’t sure what he intended to do in the meantime.

'What’s wrong with the scene, then?' he asked, when Sherlock finally turned his attention back to him.

'The wine bottle Mrs. Brackenstall says they drank at supper was opened with a Swiss Army Knife, not the corkscrew on the buffet,' Sherlock said, smiling at John. He loved showing off. John loved listening. 'And there were three glasses on the sideboard, but only one had dregs in the bottom.' He was looking immensely pleased with himself now. 'Early hour for burglaries, too, wouldn’t you say? And why did they hit her to keep her quiet, when striking a woman of that caliber would almost undoubtedly make her scream louder?'

'Undoubtedly,' John agreed.

'There are a number of other details,' Sherlock said as they approached the house once again, 'but I will need to look more closely.'

Lestrade was waiting for them at the door. 'I sent Anderson home. John, I’m so sorry.'

'It’s fine,' John said tightly, not meeting his eyes

'It was unprofessional,' Lestrade said, 'and extremely rude, and I—'

'Leave it,' John said. 'He’s an arse.'

'Well,' Lestrade said. 'Yes.' He regarded John carefully for a moment, and when John raised his eyebrows in irritated query, he turned his attention to Sherlock. 'Right, so. We have to get out of this poor woman’s hair sooner or later; make it quick.'

'Make it quick,' Sherlock muttered disdainfully, but he nodded and Lestrade stepped aside. 'Come on, John.'

John sighed deeply. Sherlock wasn’t going to break himself of the habit anytime soon, and putting up a fight in front of Lestrade would just make it all worse.

Sherlock spent half an hour inspecting the sitting room and kitchen, inquiring about the curtain sash and pointing out the half-empty bottle of wine. 'Why didn’t they finish it?' he asked, rhetorically, and then, 'and why didn’t they ransack the whole house if they’d dished Him and tied up Her?'

'Probably got spooked by the killing,' John said, clicking his pen absently. 'I mean, if you showed up to rob someone’s house and ended up with their blood on the fireplace rug, would you stick around?'

'No,' Sherlock said thoughtfully. 'Good point. I’d take what I could get my hands on and run. It still doesn’t add up, though.'

'It doesn’t,' John said, and bit back a smile. Even if he was bored with being angry at Sherlock, he wasn’t supposed to be humouring him so.

Sherlock turned back to his work, and John went back to thinking.

He’d joined the army long after he’d done college self-exploration and medical school frantic fumbling with other over-worked students. He’d had his degree and his specialty, and he’d had his officer training, and he’d done four tours before a bullet in the shoulder laid him low. He’d learned to follow orders, and he’d learned to give them, and he’d never considered one of those options giving him more pleasure than the other. So maybe the answer wasn’t in the army.

He was chewing his lower lip raw when Sherlock gave him a curious look from where he stood on top of the table beside the window. 'You’re uncomfortable.'

'I’m fine,' he said.

'Chin up,' Sherlock said, climbing down without any visible effort. 'I think Mrs. Brackenstall has a secret lover.'

John boggled. 'What? How do you know that?'

Sherlock handed him his phone, on which there was a text displayed.

 _Have passenger list from flight 2415 from  
Perth, October 2008. Took hours, I’ll   
have you know. Cross checked with hotels   
in the area: one match. James Croker, 35,   
American businessman._

 _MH._

'He’s at least as tall as me,' Sherlock said, 'and fit. Probably a Boy Scout or whatever they call them over there. Go ask Lestrade to check on the burglars. They haven’t got anything to do with this. Then we can go.'

Lestrade was at almost that very instant coming in to tell them that two of the three gang members were in custody in New York, and the third was expected to turn himself in for the sake of his brother and father. They’d arrived a week before and had been staying in an expensive hotel, eating room service and literally rolling in their loot. A maid had opened the door to do housekeeping and had seen the haul before they’d been able to shut her out, and she’d run to the police right away.

'They weren’t here,' Lestrade concluded, and Sherlock preened.

+++

They drove home again in silence, Sherlock texting madly, and John staring out the window and trying not to think. He climbed the stairs ahead of Sherlock with the weight of the day, and all the rushing back and forth, pulling down his shoulders. Sherlock nudged him towards the sofa and quietly went to make tea. When he came back with the steaming mugs in his hands, he handed John his and then sank down beside him, still obviously tense.

'John,' he said, and John held up a hand.

'I said I don’t want to talk about it anymore.'

'Listen to me,' Sherlock said, and he sounded like he’d get petulant if he didn’t get his way. If John looked at him now, he’d either be scowling or pouting. John would put money on pouting.

'Fine,' John said, 'dig your grave.'

'You’re being ridiculous,' Sherlock said, which was entirely the wrong place to start. John put his tea down, untouched, and crossed his arms firmly over his chest. 'And you’re getting defensive already, and I haven’t said anything yet.'

'Yeah, well, I’m afraid that’s how this conversation is going to go,' John said.

Sherlock heaved a sigh, as if this were all a big inconvenience, and he’d like very much to get back to ordering John around indiscriminately. 'John, you like doing what I ask.'

'I don’t mind doing things for you,' John said. 'That’s entirely different.'

'It’s not,' Sherlock said. He leaned forwards, across John, to put his own delicately sipped mug on the coffee table. He was very close, all of a sudden, smelling like expensive hair product and John’s laundry liquid, and something metallic and chemical underneath it. John’s heart was pounding in his chest, beating too fast for the level of irrational anger he was feeling, and his palms were sweating uncomfortably. Heat coiled in his gut, and he inhaled again slowly before he could stop himself. He clenched his hands into fists in his jumper, and Sherlock’s hand slid carefully onto his knee. The heat of Sherlock’s palm seeped through his trousers and his traitorous skin reacted to the warmth. His body liked this attention, even as John tamped it down furiously and desperately.

'You get pleasure from it,' Sherlock said, as if it were the most obvious conclusion to draw. 'You— I know we didn’t discuss the matter, but your behaviour matched every piece of information I have about submissives, and I— I reacted accordingly. I didn’t think we needed to talk about it— I thought it might embarrass you.'

'Bloody right it would,' John said, scowling.

'When you first moved in,' Sherlock said, 'I thought you just needed the structure. You were all— muddled up, and I wanted to fix you.'

'I thought the cases were doing that just fine,' John said. He clutched at his jumper harder, but Sherlock was rubbing little circles on the inside of his knee and his nerves felt alight with the contact. 'I don’t need you running every bit of my life.'

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and suddenly he looked so normal and _Sherlock_ that surely they couldn’t be talking about this. 'You don’t _need_ it,' he said, 'but don’t you want it?'

John stared at him.

'Tell me you don’t enjoy it when I tell you what to do,' Sherlock said. His voice had dropped a little, growing softer and deeper, and John suppressed a shiver. Sherlock saw it anyway, and he began to smile. 'You do like it. It’d be so easy, John,' he said. 'We didn’t talk about it then, but let’s talk about it now. Do what I want, just for a little while.'

'I’m not—' John said, but he wasn’t sure anymore where he was going with that.

'Shh,' Sherlock said, and he put his other hand on John’s side, below his ribs, where his white-knuckled grip was distorting his knitwear. 'You’re attracted to me, and you don’t want me to know.'

'Most people,' John said, and was dismayed to hear his voice shake, 'find it incredibly invasive when they can’t keep a single secret.'

'You’re not most people,' Sherlock said, stating the shockingly obvious, and it almost made John smile. 'Let me,' Sherlock said. 'Please, John. Just let me—'

And then he kissed him, quick and awkward press of lips to lips, and John let out a breath. Sherlock kissed him again, more carefully, and John let his eyes close as he kissed back. He released his death grip on his jumper and found Sherlock’s upper arms, and Sherlock made a quiet noise against his lips and pulled away.

'Let me take care of you,' he said, and John hesitated again. 'Just— for now. Not all the time. You don’t need me, not really.' He scoffed, but John caught the edge of apprehension in his voice. John slid his hand up Sherlock’s arm and cupped his face tentatively.

'Tell me you’re not fucking around,' he said.

'I’m not,' Sherlock replied instantly, almost indignant. 'And I haven’t been, for months, although apparently you never noticed.'

'How could you not notice that I hadn’t noticed?' John asked.

'I thought it was a given,' Sherlock said. He gave John a little half-smile, and John recognised his drawing-conclusions face. 'The more I boss you around, the more relaxed you are. You sleep better. You’re happier. Christ, John, I just like seeing you happy.'

'So you make me send your texts and bring you tea, and you refuse to eat and put experiments in the fridge?'

'Something like that,' Sherlock said. 'Lie back.'

Somehow he’d managed to turn John so that when John leaned back he sank down against the arm of the sofa. Sherlock tugged one of his legs up onto the cushions and climbed up between them.

'Arms above your head.'

John found himself obeying, sliding his arms up and grasping the arm of the sofa, his breath already coming fast. His face felt flushed, too warm. This position seemed incredibly vulnerable.

'So good,' Sherlock murmured, sliding his hands up John’s thighs. He passed by the obvious destination and slipped his fingertips under John’s jumper, still on top of his shirt. His hands were always warmer than John expected, and now they rucked up his jumper and spread heat through his body. He swallowed hard, not moving, and Sherlock grinned. His fingertips found the stiff nubs of John’s nipples and circled them slowly, and John shivered under the touch.

'Take the jumper off,' Sherlock said. John yanked it over his head and threw it behind him, and Sherlock leaned over to kiss him again. This time the kiss was deeper, Sherlock’s tongue flickering between his lips, and he found himself moaning into it. Sherlock pressed his body along the length of John’s, taller and leaner and almost overwhelming with how good he felt. John was half-hard in his trousers, and he wanted to know if Sherlock was having the same reaction.

He pulled away, and Sherlock chased his mouth for a moment in confusion, biting at his lower lip. Then he pulled back and looked down at John, and his eyes were blown dark with arousal. His cheeks were stained pink and his lips were swollen. Sherlock slid closer, his hips between John’s legs, and John could feel all the evidence he really needed digging into his upper thigh. He dipped his head and pressed his lips to the bared line of John’s clavicle.

'Now the shirt,' Sherlock said, and John worked his hands between them to unbutton it. Sherlock kissed his way down John’s chest as each button revealed a little more, and by the time he’d reached John’s navel he could push the shirt away entirely and get his hands on John’s bare chest.

He found the scar without looking, fingertips skating their way up John’s ribs to his pectoral, and then smoothing over the jagged edges. John flinched at the touch, shying away, and Sherlock raised his head abruptly.

'Be still,' he said, and then, 'let me see.'

John let him see. It wasn’t the first time he’d been shirtless in front of Sherlock, but it was the first time he’d been flat on his back on the sofa while Sherlock loomed over him, fixated on the scar. The tissue was mangled, ruined, but Sherlock looked at it like it were a puzzle to be put back together. John’s stomach twisted with nerves and he had to stare at the ceiling over Sherlock’s shoulder rather than watch him investigate John’s body, but his erection never abated, especially with the way Sherlock was wedged tight between his thighs and every movement rocked them together.

Finally Sherlock bent and kissed the scar, and said, 'Trousers off,' as if they’d never paused. John moved slowly at first, confused, and Sherlock squeezed his thigh. 'Faster,' he said, and the corner of his mouth turned up in a smile. 'You make me impatient.'

'You were born impatient,' John protested, but he was undoing his trousers all the same.

'Well,' Sherlock said lightly, pulling them down John’s hips, 'I was patient with you before, and now I’m done. Now that it’s no longer apparently a secret, we have a lot to make up.'

'Fair enough,' John said, grinning, and Sherlock kissed him.


End file.
